The Golden Myth
The letter was still warm from the post, a small, rectangular ember in my palm. "You have the mark, Thomas," said Master Aldric, his voice thin and brittle as dry kindling. "The gold thread. It is visible to all who look with the correct eye, and to none who do not." I looked down at the cuff of my waistcoat. The silk had been dyed a deep, bruised violet, the color of a twilight sky before a...
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